
Class VS &19& 
Book .\ , -J 3 

CXJEXRIGHT DEPOSm 



WAR VOICES AND MEMORIES 



WAR VOICES AND MEMORIES 

BEING VERSES WRITTEN DURING THE YEARS 

NINETEEN HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN AND 

NINETEEN HUNDRED AND EIGHTEEN 



BY 

CLINTON SCOLLARD 



* 



NEW YORK 

JAMES T. WHITE AND COMPANY 

MCMXX 






Copyright 1919 
By James T. White and Company 



MAV 24 1920 



©ilA570lOO 



"■ " \ 



CONTENTS 

AMERICA PAGE 

The Song Valiant 13 

The Vision .14 

After Many Days 15 

Shoulder to Shoulder 16 

Marching Song 17 

What is the Word of the Lord 18 

Tramp ! Tramp ! 19 

Have You Done Your Bit 20 

A Ballad of Halloween 22 

The Man in the Tree 25 

An American Marine 26 

The First Shell . 28 

These Are Grave Hours 30 

The First Three 31 

A May Evening 32 

At the Verge of the Year 33 

Tolerance 34 

No Man's Land 35 

Butterflies . . 36 

In June 37 

A Summer Dawn 38 



PAGE 

Those Who Return 39 

Memories 40 

Immortals 41 

The Unreturning 42 

FRANCE 

The Cathedral of Rheims 45 

Here Passed the Hun 47 

The Cock of Tilloloy 48 

Poppies in France 50 

The Path of the Hun 51 

Henry of Navarre 52 

In Picardy 53 

ITALY 

To Italy 57 

High Noon at Said 58 

The Garden 61 

The Huns at Padua 62 

Italy Triumphant 64 

Of Francesco Mario Guardabassi 65 

Saint Anthony of Padua 67 

PALESTINE 

The Last Crusade 71 

Jericho 74 

A Syrian Scene 77 

Riding with Allenby 78 



MISCELLANEOUS PAGE 

The House of the Hawk 83 

The Armenians 85 

Heine 86 

Germania . 87 

I Passed from Dream to Dream 88 

The Conquerors 89 

The Earth Call 91 

Two Constantines 93 

Flowers in Brussels 94 

Five and Twenty Valiant Men 95 



Once I was envious of the men whose span 
On studious nights I used to contemplate, 
Who through fortuitous decrees of fate 

Lived in the time of the great Corsican. 

I deemed they dwelt in winged hours, the tan 
Of dull days not upon them, nor the weight 
Of small contentions, with the intimate 

Knowledge of mighty things to sense and scan. 

But mine imaginings are changed to-day; 
Vain seems the panorama of the past, 

The years revolving into darkness whirled; 
And, clear as in a vision, I forecast 
That in the future men of us will say — 

They lived at the climacteric of the world! 



AMERICA 



THE SONG VALIANT 

Give me to sing a valiant song, I pray, 
Without a note that shall its cadence mar ; 

One that shall mount to greet the sun by day, 
By night the listening star ! 

A song with courage keyed in every chord, 
A flaming song to kindle and inspire ; 

One that shall stir the hearts of men, Lord, 
With patriotic fire ! 

One to be like a trumpet in the dawn, 
Or one of sacrifice, should that needs be, 

If so it lift the soul, and bear it on 
To heights of victory! 



[13] 



THE VISION 

I have beheld no vision like to this — 

Line upon line, the surge of marching men, 

Upon their lifted brows the chrismal kiss 
Of inspiration. Will they come again? 

Some of them will, although it be with scars, 
The same bright light within their leveled eyes ; 

Some of them will not, and the eternal stars 
"Will tell the story of their sacrifice. 

But I have seen them, splendid, virile, strong ; 

Yea, I have seen them while my cheeks grew wet, 
And though the years, the uncertain years, be long, 

Once having seen them, I shall not forget ! 



[14] 



AFTER MANY DAYS 

If, feeling that our hands were strong, 
We have been patient, patient long, 

And slow to anger when assailed 
By that insidious, grasping throng 

Before which half the world has quailed ; 

If we have seemed too fond of ease 
Behind our bulwark of the seas, 

Content while others took the thrust, 
And bore unheard of agonies, 

Let us be humble in the dust ! 

Let us be humble, but no less, 
Since from our limbs the dull duress 

Has fallen, and we behold the light, 
Let us arouse in righteousness, 

And strike with our embattled might ! 

Rather on Flemish fields o'errun 
By the massed legions of the Hun 

Or bravest, dearest blood be shed 
Than we should fail in duty done, 

And know our ancient honor dead! 

April, 1917. 

[15] 



SHOULDER TO SHOULDER 

Shoulder to shoulder! Each man in his place! 
Shoulder to shoulder, and " right about! face!" 
We've a duty to do ere we grow a day older, 
And the way we can do it is — shoulder to shoulder! 

Shoulder to shoulder ! Each man in the line ! 
Shoulder to shoulder ! The Flag for a sign ! 
Yes, let us not weaken, but let us grow bolder, 
And rally and sally with — "shoulder to shoulder !" 

Shoulder to shoulder! Each man in his might! 
Shoulder to shoulder ! We fight for the right ! 
The land of our love — may our courage enfold her! 
May we work — and not shirk — for her, shoulder to 
shoulder ! 



[16] 



MARCHING SONG 

Let us awhile forget the lute and viol, 

Their tender, low refrains ; 
More fitting far in this, our time of trial, 

The sterner, graver strains! 

There is an hour for brooding upon beauty 

Beneath calm skies and clear ; 
There is an hour for sacrificial duty, 

And, lo, that hour is here! 

Hark ! 'tis the bugle resonant and ringing 

Again and yet again! 
Let every patriot heart go forward singing 

With our brave marching men ! 



[17] 



WHAT IS THE WORD OF THE LORD 

What is the word of the Lord veiled in His far blue 
fastness ? 
What is the word of the Lord unto our moiety of 
earth? 
What is the word of the Lord out of the vague and 
the vastness? 
What is His burning word in these days of dolor 
and dearth? 

He hath given to us a sword, a falchion to swing and 
smite with, 
To smite till it flinch and quail, the dark dread De- 
mon of Wrong; 
He hath given to us a brand to grip and brandish and 
fight with, 
And bidden us go to battle, the song on our lips His 
song! 

"On!" is the word of the Lord: "On!" to our girded 
legions, 
Whether they tread the land, or venture the paths 
of the sea; 
"On!" till the children of earth, aye, its uttermost 
regions, 
Be free from the Demon's threat, from the Demon's 
might be free ! 

[18] 



*m » ! !» ■ » ■ »*»■—■ 



TRAMP! TRAMP! 

Tramp ! tramp ! You may hear the beat in the high- 
ways, 

Hear it at dawn, and in the dusk and the damp ; 
Aye, you may even hark it resound from the byways — 

Tramp ! tramp ! 

Whither go they, they that are ours, this legion, 
Bearing upon their brows such a fearless stamp? 

Into what unknown, into what untried region ? — 
Tramp ! tramp ! 

All of them go to look in the eyes of danger ; 

Courage be unto each as a shining lamp, 
Though some should find a bourn to which we are 
stranger ! — 

Tramp! tramp! 

God set a light to guide them back from their march- 
ing, 

Back from the battle-reek and the cluttered camp, 
Back to the mother-sky that is over-arching ! — 

Tramp ! tramp ! 

[19] 



HAVE YOU DONE YOUR BIT 

Sons of Freedom, freedom-lovers in our land where 

all are free, 
Where upon the hill horizons beacon-fires of Liberty 
By the hands of hardy yeomen in the years of old 

were lit, 
Answer to the Mother's summons: Have you, have 

you "done your bit?" 

Have you pledged your bone and sinew, have you 
pledged your hearts to show 

In this darkling hour of danger the allegiance that 
you owe? 

Or inert, inept, unheeding, do you by your hearth- 
stones sit? 

Rouse, and let us hear your answer ! — Have you, have 
you "done your bit?" 

Are the Past's proud days forgotten, days when men 

were men indeed, 
And the creed of Faith and Honor triumphed o'er the 

dreams of Greed; 
"When the words of Patrick Henry seemed to each as 

Holy Writ, 
And from Lexington to Yorktown every patriot "did 

his bit!" 

[20] 



'Tis a glory but to name them, — how they burn in 

memory, 
Those that with "Old Hickory" battled, or with 

Lawrence sailed the sea, 
Down to those that dared with Dewey, and who neither 

quailed nor quit, 
But, with fearlessness undaunted, nobly, nobly "did 

their bit!" 

Sons of Freedom, freedom-lovers, whatsoe'er your 

strain of birth, 
Native sons or sons adopted from the utmost ends 

of earth, 
Hark, America, your Mother, eyes with righteous 

justice lit, 
To defend her, to befriend her, bids you rise and l l do 

your bit!" 



[21] 



A BALLAD OF HALLOWEEN 

Now there was one who trod the night 

Across a tented field ; 
Above the frosty moon was bright 

As is a burnished shield. 

Erect he strode, in martial wise, 
This wraith come back again, 

As when he wore the mortal guise 
Of Baron von Steuben. 

Although from awe no longer chirred 

The crickets in the grass, 
No guardsman spake a challenge word, 

Nor heard his footsteps pass. 

At last he reached a peaked tent 
Wherefrom a form there came 

Whose stately mien was eloquent 
With something none may name. 

In stiff salute they stood there dumb 

In silent gaze, and then, 
"Why, Washington, didst bid me come?" 

Asked Baron von Steuben. 
[22 1 



"Well I recall," the General said, 

1 ' Thine aid when long ago 
Our shrunken arms were sore bestead 

Amid the drifted snow. 

"Once more the battle bruit is on, 

The fight for Liberty; 
We struggle toward a newer dawn 

To make the whole world free. 

"To win for every man his own, 

For this we take our stand, 
Albeit it be against the throne 

That rules thy Fatherland. 

"A throne that would mankind enthrall 

In Force's brutal chains, 
Where, a grim menace, over all 

A sanguine despot reigns. 

"Not poor as on a bygone hour 

Are we; we've many a son, 
And yet we need thine aid and power 

To weld them into one." 

"I know — I know — " the Baron spake, 
While in his eyes shone pain, 

"And at thy bidding I will take 
The old task up again. 
[23] 



"Thy foes are mine, whoe'er they be; 

Secure thy cause and right, 
To smite at banded tyranny 

That rears its head in might. " 

Once more, once more the grave salute, 

A wordless space, and lo, 
Only the guardsman stern and mute 

At his still sentry-go ! 

But now amid our gathered host, 

To shape them fighting men, 
From post to post there speeds the ghost 

Of Baron von Steuben. 



1917 



[24] 



THE MAN IN THE TREE 

Have you heard how we shattered the lines of the foe 
When the boys clad in khaki advanced upon Vaux, 
How we battered the Boches and caused them to flee ? 
It was through Captain Bradley, the man in the tree ! 

Where the boughs of a pine bole uprose like a spire, 
He strung some thin strands of a telephone wire ; 
Then ' ' Fire ! ' ' was the word that he shouted in glee, 
This gay Captain Bradley, the man in the tree! 

Though round him the bullets were buzzing like bees, 

He sat like a soldier who's taking his ease; 

Now " Right" and now "Left" and now "Center/ 1 

called he, 
This blithe Captain Bradley, the main in the tree ! 

' ' Come down ! ' ' hailed a voice in the heat of the strife. 
* * Come down ? ' ' answered Bradley. ' ' No, not on your 

life!" 
And he stuck to his post ; he was deaf to all plea, 
This gallant young Captain, the man in the tree ! 

So 'twas "Boom" and 'twas "Bang" till the Huns 

had their fill, 
And we routed them out from their nests on the hill ; 
And we marched into Vaux with a stride that was 

free, 
Through brave Captain Bradley, the man in the tree ! 

[25] 



AN AMERICAN MARINE 

The hills of home are lonely, 
The vales of home are grave, 

And sad the winding footpaths 
Beside a eool stream's wave. 

One who was wont to tread them, 
In youthful days and hale, 

Has passed out far beyond them 
Upon the long, long trail. 

He might have slept in quiet 
In the sweet restful earth, 

After calm days of toiling, 
Where he had had his birth ; 

But no! a voice came calling 
That would not be denied, — 

His Country's, — and he heeded 
With all a patriot's pride, 

Just as his sires had heeded 
In the dark hours of yore 

When Washington and Lincoln 
Bade brave men to the fore. 
[26] 



He joined the great adventure 
To make the wide world free 

Beneath the flag that symbols 
The light of Liberty. 

Of that heroic vanguard, 

Unquailing, he was one 
Who o'er the Marne hurled backward 

The grim hosts of the Hun. 

And with the same stanch spirit 
He struck one last swift blow 

In those shell-riven thickets, 
The forest of Belleau. 

The hills of home are lonely, 

The vales of home are grave, 
But he — his name is bright on 
The Roster of the Brave! 



[27] 



THE FIRST SHELL 

(An American Artillery-Man Speaks) 

'Twas a long, long hike through the haggard night 

In the lash of the driven rain, 
And then there were black and bitter hours 

In the lurch and grind of a train. 

And some one laughed and some one chaffed, 

And some one countered, "well, 
I wonder, boys, where we 're going to — 

To what special part of Hell?" 

Then came a dawn that wasn't a dawn, 

But an eerie spectral air, 
A weltering mist that we blundered through 

To a place in God knows where. 

There were twenty men and our battery gun, 

And I was one of the crew; 
So we limbered her up with her face to the front, 

And she was a dandy too. 

"We coaxed her along with shove and haul 

Through the reek of muck and mire, 
And when we had camouflaged her fine 

We got her ready to fire. 
[28] 



We were out near the edge of No Man's Land 
Where only a dank wind stirred, 

And it was just after the stroke of six 
That we got the Captain's word. 

A sudden roar and rift in the mist, 

And wouldn't it have been luck 
Had bloody old von Hindenberg 

Been where that first shell struck! 



[29] 



THESE ARE GRAVE HOURS 

These are grave hours, and yet we should not brood 

On peril, rather look it in the face, 

Abjuring fear, and every lingering trace 
Of darkening doubt, in an exalted mood. 
Let us each take new grip on fortitude ; 

Let us not quail nor flinch, for that were base ; 

Let us have heart, for we are of a race 
That against wrong has ever steadfast stood ! 

These are grave hours. 'Twere futile to deny 
The threat of Might, and its embattled powers; 

A dreadful menace looms upon the sky; 
Nearer and nearer the black shadow towers ; 

Shall we lose faith and trust ? Nay, let us cry — 
"Courage!" and " Courage!" during these grave 
hours. 

March, 1918. 



[30] 



THE FIRST THREE 

"Somewhere in France/' upon a brown hillside, 

They lie, the first of our brave soldiers slain ; 

Above them flowers, now beaten by the rain, 
Yet emblematic of the youths who died 
In their fresh promise. They who, valiant-eyed, 

Met death unfaltering have not fallen in vain ; 

Remembrance hallows those who thus attain 
The final goal ; their names are glorified. 

Read then the roster ! — Gresham ! Enright ! Hay ! — 
No bugle call shall rouse them when the flower 
Of morning breaks above the hills and dells, 
For they have grown immortal in an hour, 
And we who grieve and cherish them would lay 
Upon their hillside graves our immortelles ! 



[31] 



A MAY EVENING 

I saw the long fair afternoon decline, 
And in the amethystine west afar 
Outgleam the glory of a single star, 

A peaceful star, it seemed of peace a sign. 

And at the woodland 's edge a voice divine, 
The thrush, I heard, bar after silver bar 
Of melting music, with no sound to mar 

The mounting rapture of one lyric line. 

And then, and then, imagination wrought 
A dreadful change, and, lo, mine eyes de- 
scried 
The battle-stars above the Oise and Somme ; 
The cannon's awful music boomed and died, 
And boomed again, and I could think of naught 
Save the world gripped by War's delirium! 



[32] 



AT THE VERGE OF THE YEAR 

War, like a stark colossus, stands astride 
The ruinous world, and takes its toll of fate, 
Mightier than ancient Moloch, puffed with hate, 

Flaunting the precept of the crucified. 

The day is darkened, while red furies ride 
Adown the night, and with men's anguish sate 
Their bloody lusts, dread, incompassionate, 

Deaf to the voice of prayer, whate'er betide. 

The shrines of Christ are desecrate, defiled 
In wantonness, though cries go up to Him, 
Petition al and praiseful, without cease; 
What irony ! what mockery ! what grim 

Apostasy, as though dark Satan smiled, 
Scorning the spirit of the Prince of Peace ! 



1918. 



[»»] 



TOLERANCE 

Too long have we been lax and lenient; 
We have been patient, though we knew that we 
Harbored the venomous viper, Treachery, 

Keady to strike with foul and fell intent. 

But now the day of tolerance is spent ; 
Let us have done with sleek hypocrisy, 
With those who strive to work insidiously ! — 

Be there at last some stern arbitrament ! 

Kultur's apostles, you who are arrayed 

With the blasphemous Beast who drew the sword, 

And slew the innocent the while he prayed, 
Should on your heads there fall some just reward, 

Yours is the blame who fatuously have made 
Your tongue abhorrent and your race abhorred ! 



[**] 



NO MAN'S LAND 

"It is in night that I see No Man's Land!" 
Thus said the soldier, dreams within his eyes, 
Dark dreams of horror under moonless skies. 

"I mark its reaches vague and vast expand, 

Illimitable as seems the desert sand, 
While sudden out of it dim forms arise 
And disappear, and there are warning cries 

Ere comes the grisly grapple hand to hand. 

"The grisly grapple — groans and gasping breath 
Amid the fetid fumes that choke and reek 
As the hot life blood gushes on the hand ; 
Then, in the murk, the inscrutable face of Death!" 
Thus said the soldier, though he scarce could 
speak ; 
"It is in night that I see No Man's Land!" 



[35] 



BUTTERFLIES 

About me loop and dart the butterflies, 

Like yellow iris petals dowered with wings ; 

Beneath the azure of the summer skies 

They seem to voyage on blithe adventurings. 

Now here, now there, on grass or flower a-poise, 
They linger in their brief uncertain flight, 

Tasting the fleeting moment's honied joys, 
And then are gone, are gone into the night. 

I have read somewhere in an ancient book, 
The name whereof my memory holds no trace, 

They are departed souls come back to look 
On scenes familiar for a little space. 

Into my heart there creeps this stealthy fear; — 
There will be many butterflies this year ! 

1918, 



[»«] 



IN JUNE 

The crimson roses tell me it is June ; 

I know it by the wind that never grieves, 
And by the radiant rondure of the moon, 

And by the emerald shadows of the leaves. 

The fireflies with their tenuous golden skeins 

They too reveal it, and the oriole, 
Flame-breasted, says to me that Junetime reigns 

By the unburdened rapture of its soul. 

Yet sometimes I am barren of belief, 

And whisper to myself it cannot be, 
With all the nations in the grasp of grief, 

And all the world so wrenched with agony. 

June is for joy, yet horror stalks abroad, 

And he who wrought the crime blasphemes to God. 



[37] 



A SUMMER DAWN 

I roused me with the sun ; the bough tops stirred, 
Touched by the tender fingers of the breeze, 

And from a grove I heard a hidden bird 
Salute the dawn with golden melodies. 

There was no other sound save chanticleer 
With his sharp clarion note, although I knew 

Across the garden paths, in whispers clear, 
The roses might be talking of the dew. 

So perfect harmony ushered in the day, 
And yet my spirit would not be at peace, 

Sensing demonic echoes far away, 

Mad murmurs of red conflict without cease — 

The interminable roar of black-mouthed guns 
Where brave men faced the onset of the Huns. 



[88] 



THOSE WHO EETURN 

Those who return from scarred and stricken places, 
Our men of valor, will they seem the same, 

Or will they wear on their beloved faces 
Something inscrutable we may not name? 

>. 

Will they take up their duties and their pleasures 
With aims and ardors that they knew of old, 

Or will they weigh all life with newer measures, 
And view the past as one a tale long told ? 

They who have looked into the eyes of dangers 
Unsensed by us, and which we may not feel, 

Will they not sometimes be to us as strangers, 
Holding at heart what they may not reveal? 

Unchanged, yet changed in this — that they have been 
So near the veil that hides the Great Unseen ! 



[39] 



MEMORIES 

I have a memory of dim twilights gone 
And the lulled sense of indolent repose, 

With lilac lights close round about me drawn, 
And the pervasive attar of the rose. 

I have a memory of the hermit thrush 

From some sequestered woodland covert far 

Poignantly stirring the cool evening hush 
With its clear anthem to the vesper star. 

These things once touched my sense of loveliness 
And made within my mind a harmony ; 

But now they fail; who could be passionless 
At the great tidings borne from over sea! 

In this triumphant hour, this hour supreme, 
All also seems futile, futile as a dream ! 

1918. 



[40] 



IMMORTALS 

Beyond the lifted barrage 
He'd almost gained his goal, 

When on far ways eternal 
"Went out his soldier soul. 

They found in his blouse pocket 
These words, writ clear to see, 

"I shall fight on as though all 
Depended upon me!" 

But now he has adventured 
Beyond the utmost star; 

His is that distant dwelling 
Where all dead heroes are. 

Mayhap he looks on Bayard, 
Marks Roland near him stand; 

Beholds the smile of Sidney, 
And clasps him by the hand. 

For valor calls to valor 

Across time's furthest span; 

He is immortal with them, 
This young American ! 
[41] 



THE UNRETUKNING 

For us, the dead, though young, 
For us, who fought and bled, 

Let a last song be sung, 
And a last word be said ! 

Dreams, hopes and high desires, 
That leaven and uplift, 

On sacrificial fires 
We offered as a gift. 

We gave, and gave our all, 
In gladness, though in pain; 

Let not a whisper fall 
That we have died in vain ! 



[42] 



FRANCE 



THE CATHBDEAL OF EHEIMS 

Behold the ruin of the shrine of Eheims 

That War had spared throughout six hundred 
years ! 

For Beauty shattered, and Art's loveliest dreams, 
Ah, shall there not be sorrowing and tears ? 

And shall there not be execration too, 

Or is that word too tolerant to tell 
The eternal obloquy which is the due 

Of those that wrought the wrong irreparable! 

Strange is the healing of the hand of Time, 

One of our life 's evasive mysteries ; 
The ages may atone for many a crime, 

Forgetfulness dim the memory — but not this ! 

Never hereafter, at the daylight's close, 
"With hues more radiant than the sunset sky, 

Shall the clerestory's blazing red and rose 
Uplift the soul in silent ecstasy. 

Never again the gentle angel's face 

Look down in all its blest beatitude ; 
Nor the grave saints, in dignity and grace, 

Gaze from the portals in benignant mood. 
[45] 



Thus let it stand ! 'Twere futile to restore 
Lost Beauty, by despoiling hands undone ; 

Thus let it stand, aye, stand forevermore, 
Symbolic of the kultur of the Hun! 



[46] 



HERE PASSED THE HUN 

Here passed the Hun ! Not in the long ago 

A path more pitiless of scath and woe 

Blazed Attila beneath the noonday sun 

Than may be seen to-day where passed the Hun ! 

Here passed the Hun where the rose-window gleamed 
Of stately Rheims, and saints in marble dreamed ; 
Where scholarly Louvain dozed 'mid its limes, 
And Termonde bells rang rhythmic vesper chimes ! 

Here passed the Hun through peaceful Picardy, 
Spreading his wake of wanton misery 
Where Noyon walls are toppled stone from stone, 
And Coucy-le-Chateau lies overthrown! 

Here passed the Hun, and left but death and dearth 
Where once was life and plenty and blithe mirth ; 
Here passed the Hun, and wreaked his ruthless wrong 
Where once were women's smiles and children's song! 

Here passed the Hun ! His cruelty and crime 
Are written large upon the Book of Time. 
Till Time shall cease still will the legend run 
In those fair ravished lands — Here passed the II un! 

[47] 



THE COCK OF TILLOLOY 

The Daughters of the American Revolution will, after the 
war, rebuild the village of Tilloloy. — The Matin. 

For years unknown the Cock of Tilloloy, 
Of ancient Tilloloy in Picardy, 

Stood stanch on guard upon the old church tower, 
Whirled with the whirling winds, and, many deemed, 
Sounded a shrill reveille when the morn 
Flowered in the east like an aerial rose. 
After a thousand thousand rains and snows 
Had beaten on it, sanguine battle came 
And smote the rod which held it. Down it fell, 
Clashing and clanging on the lichened tiles, 
And thence to earth. In the diaphanous dusk 
Of early June, what time it poised and plunged, 
A Poilu, wandering in the dim church close, 
Saw the descending vane and caught it up, 
The ancient iron Cock of Tilloloy. 
Somehow it seemed a symbol and a sign, 
And so he bore it with him. At Verdun, 
And too upon that red intrenched line 
Along the Somme, it crowned the barrier, 
And 'twas as though it crowed the clarion call 
To victory, though the shrapnel clipped its comb 
And rent its slender body. The Poilu, 

[481 



Fain of his furlough after days that reeked 
With shock and slaughter, took the battered Cock, 
The ancient iron Cock of Tilloloy, 
And hid it. 

Now that kindly hearts and hands, 
Hearts wherein burn the flame of love for France, 
Are to remould and fashion wall and tower, 
Again upon the crest the valiant vane, 
Unvanquished by the onset of the Huns, 
In reverence raised from its safe hiding place, 
Will greet the morning as in elder time 
When winds of Peace blew over Tilloloy. 
Such is our dream — and may the dream come true! 



[49] 



POPPIES IN FRANCE 

I can recall when summer hazed 
The sky, and all seemed in a trance, 

How the bright poppies burned and blazed 
Across the rolling fields of France. 

They made a glory of Champaigne, 
Wave after wave of harmony; 

They spread a cloth of crimson stain 
On many a field in Picardy. 

Again the poppy blooms are fair 
Beneath the summer's haze-hung sky, 

But now (0 poignant sorrow!) there 
Than theirs behold a deeper dye ! 



[50] 



THE PATH OF THE HUN 

Only a ravaged garth 
Where the grass runs wild, 

And an old bent woman there 
With a little child. 

Only a shattered tower 

Bereft of its bells, 
Where, with its sealed lips, 

Gray silence dwells. 

Only a fresh-heaped mound 
With its grim pathos, 

And a tilted soldier's cap 
On a wooden cross. 

Only the creeping wind 
And the shrouded sun ; 

Only the pale gloom ; — this 
Was the path of Hun! 



[51] 



HENRY OF NAVARRE 

Now that the clouds of battle loom 
Above the fair French fields in bloom 

Along the front of War, 
Come, spirit of the spotless plume, 

Brave Henry of Navarre ! 

Against the serried lines arrayed, 
Your valiant kinsmen need your aid ; 

Let, like a flashing star, 
Gleam once again your fearless blade, 

Brave Henry of Navarre! 

From realms remote we may not see, 
Lest lost be light and Liberty, 

Return, where'er you are, 
Return, and lead to victory, 

Brave Henry of Navarre ! 



[52] 



IN PICARDY 

In Picardy, in Picardy, 

If I dare look mine eyes must see 

A nameless horror now; 
And yet a bird with folded wings 
Within a treetop sings and sings 

Upon a blackened bough. 

It sings and sings, with folded wings, 
Of coming springs, of happier springs, 

That shall be not as now, 
When life and love again shall be 
In Picardy, in Picardy, 

Beneath the leafy bough! 



[53] 



ITALY 



TO ITALY 

We who have loved you long and loved you well, 

Symbol of Beauty, prototype of Art, 

Treasuring within the holies of your heart 
Forevermore the ancient sibyl spell, 
Would fain acclaim you, hail you, fain would dwell 

Upon your lofty and heroic part 

'Gainst those dark powers that aim to change the 
chart 
Of all the world, with force intolerable ! 

Now in your hour of bitterness and need 

Our hopes and prayers are with you. May the old 

Spirit of Roman valor stir your lines 
Firmly against the Vandal hordes to hold, 
While to your aid the spectral legions speed 
North with the wind across the Apennines ! 



[57] 



HIGH NOON AT SALO 

Over the roofs of Said the high noon, 
And all the air aswoon, 

The amber air that ripens the round grapes 
Within Lake Garda's coves and on its capes. 
The gossips drowsy; in the little square 
Where the facade of Santa Maria towers, 
And where its bells mark off the gliding hours, 
A group of lads in frolic; — sun-brown hair, 
And sun-brown faces, limbs, and sun-brown feet, 
And laughing lips without a hint of care ; 
Then I, a wanderer, strolling up the street, 
And chancing on them there. 
One youth, the one most fleet, 
Pounces upon me, clutches at my coat. 
"Signore, come! Signore, come!" he cries, 
An eager light within his up-raised eyes, 
Eyes like deep purple shades when daylight dies, 
6 ' Come, and see Santa Maria ! ' 9 . 

Who could say 
To this persuasive cicerone, "Nay!" 
And mar the liquid note 
Of his entreatment ? So he led the way, 

[58] 



Lifting the leathern curtain at the door 

With all the sylvan grace of a young faun. 

Gone, on a sudden, the day's radiance, gone 

The heaviness of heat; 

Within was twilight, faint and cool and sweet, 

And a great silence wherethrough, presently, 

Broke a clear voice, the lad's. It seemed to me 

As mellow as an organ; yea, it grew 

As rapture does in music from the thin 

And mounting treble of the violin 

(That had its birth in Said) to the deep 

Eeverent prof undo of a cello chord; 

He knew each shrine and altar, and he knew 

Every madonna draped in lovely hue 

(The Divine Shepherd caring for His sheep), 

And every saint that worshipped the young Lord. 

At last we passed again into the light, 

The quiet old piazza, dazzling bright; 

And with obeisance suave 

For what I gave, 

"Addio! — grazie! — grazie!" said he, 

Shyly and smilingly. 

Since then, that noon in Salo, the fleet years 

Have slipt, on swallow flight, 

Into the past's inevitable night, 

But still upon mine ears 

Falls the boy's golden voice; 

Still can I see his face, 

[59] 



With all its glamour and with all its grace, 
And well I know that he has made his choice. 
Somewhere on the Piave line his cries 
In exultation rise — 

"Viva Italia!" Such souls as he 
In the red stress of conflict do not fail; 
And though he kiss the Grail, 
His sacrifice will be 

For freedom, and so here I bid him hail ; 
Hail unto him, and hail to Italy ! 



[60] 



THE GARDEN 

How fair the garden in the mid-day glow, 
With all its smoothly swarded terraces, 

Down sloping to the placid pool below, 
Dotted with lilies, girt with aspen trees ! 

'Tis like a memory out of Italy, 

For there are marbles wreathed with ivy there, — 
Pan with his goat hoofs, mouth awry with glee, 

And Daphne with the laurel in her hair. 

And over all a sky that wears the blue 

And gold of skies that arch the Apennines, 

And a light breeze that lingeringly steals through 
Like that which stirs the tops of Roman pines. 

Yet what a contrast! — Here no threat awaits, 
While Italy has the Hun within her gates. 



[61] 



THE HUNS AT PADUA 

In days still vivid and golden I recall 
How twilight shadows fell on dome and wall 

In Padua. How San Andrea's chimes 
Floated above the rooftops, and how all 

Was peace and beauty. Through the o'erhanging 
limes 
Girdling the Prato fleeting laughter stirred 
From wandering lovers and from bough and bird. 

Brighter the lights in vast II Santo 's aisles 

Shone in the deepening gloaming, and the crowd, 
Passing from worship through the long arcades, 

Chattered as children chatter, gay with smiles, 
Drawn by clear strains that echoed low or loud 

From the bedecked Piazza of Cavour, 
For here when droop the violet evening shades 

Music ascends with all its lovely lure. 

How magical it seemed ! — how magic yet 
The tall towered city in its gardens set, 
"Wrapt round about with olden memories 
Thick as the vines that clothe its mulberry trees; 
The house where Dante dwelt through hours of gloom, 
Whose narrow windows look upon the tomb 
Of Antenor ; the grassed Arena space ; 

[62] 



The Loggia's inimitable grace; 
The wondrous statue Donatello wrought, 
And the adoring mediaeval thought 
Perpetuate upon canvas — virgin, saint, 
Such as the hand of Titian loved to paint, 
Such as Bellini and Mantegna limned, 
By the erasing centuries undimmed. 

Long, long aforetime underneath the yoke 
Of one whose name is linked with cruelty, 

In woe and terror lived the Paduan folk, 
And Ezzelino, called "the Devil," he! 

Search history's page and you will find than his 

No darker, bloodier atrocities; 

Shuddering along the streets the people trod, 

Calling in vain upon the aid of God; 

In vain? — but nay! One heard them as they cried. 

The Fiend was driven forth. By Brenta's side, 

Bound to a stake, he gnawed his wounds and died. 

In Paduan ways do they not think once more 
His spirit comes from the abyss of night, 
Clad in the Hun's habiliments of fright, 
Bearing a newer horror, and, as of yore, 
From this satanic thing do they not pray 
For swift release, for retribution? Yea! 
And we would cry with them — ' ' God speed the day ! ' ' 

[63] 



ITALY TRIUMPHANT 

I can see how the beacons burned 

On the hills of Italy ; 
How the news was told in flames of gold 

That the land from the foe was free ! 
How the joy-light leaped from peak to peak 

Away and yet away 
From the snowy heights of the Dolomites 

To far Tarentum bay. 

And I can hear how cheer on cheer 

Went up from that stately square 
Where fair Milan's cathedral towers 

Like flowers lift up in air; 
The triumph notes from exultant throats 

In Florence I can divine, 
And how the shouts from the Corso swept 

To the crest of the Palatine. 

Ah, never again on plateau or plain 

The Austrian and the Hun! 
Untroubled now to seek the main 

Piave's waters run; 
From a galling yoke a gallant folk 

Redeemed and glad and free, 
With queenly Venice looking out 

Across her sunrise sea! 
[64] 



OF FRANCESCO MARIO GUARDABASSI 

In the olden days and spacious, 
We have read how brave Horatius 
Held a bridge-head of the Tiber when the Etruscans 
threatened Rome; 
Hear how Captain Guardabassi, 
Tall and muscular and massy, 
Held the bridge at Latisana from the dawning to the 
gloam. 

When his countrymen were driven 

From the Carso, rent and riven, 
Back upon the Tagliamento, rose amid the ranks a 
shout ; 

Swelled like hiving bees a-humming, — 

"Austrian cavalry are coming !" 
There was peril of a panic ; there was danger of a rout. 

Then the gallant grenadier, he 
A Perugian stanch and cheery, 
Faced the streaming troops that jostled at the tidings 
they had heard ; 
"Hold!" he cried; "and hark to reason! 
There is treachery ; there is treason ; 
For the Austrians are not coming !" and they halted 
at his word. 

[65] 



Then with other souls undaunted, 
How he flouted, how he flaunted 
At the faltering and fearsome, with his scornful eyes 
ashine ! 
How he stood and stemmed and stormed them 
Till he rallied and reformed them, 
And they marched in steady columns to the safe Piave 
line! 

So, masterful Mario, 
Ere we say to you addio, 
Take the guerdon of these plaudits wheresoever you 
may be ! 
Your indomitable deed there, 
In the vital hour of need there, 
Shows the stirring verve and valor in the heart of 
Italy. 

October, 1917. 



[66] 



SAINT ANTHONY OF PADUA 

I had a vision of Saint Anthony 

At hush of midnight rising from his tomb 
In domed II Santo where, amid the gloom, 

The tapers wavered faint and fitfully. 

Not in his saintly raiment robed was he, 

But bright in burnished mail and knightly plume, 
Like some old warrior daring the dark doom 

Of death, with face set toward eternity. 

A spectral steed awaited at the door; 

Swiftly he mounted and as swiftly whirled 
Out of the Paduan gates across the plain. 
The soldiers heard the burning words he bore 
In dreams, and, wakening, back the Huns they 
hurled 
Where the Piave murmurs toward the main. 



[67] 



PALESTINE 



THE LAST CRUSADE 

In the dusk of the vanished ages we read how it came 

to pass 
That a man called Peter the Hermit rode through 

France on an ass, 

Preaching to Princes and people from the dawn to the 

even gloam 
The word of Heaven as spoken by the lips of the Pope 

of Rome. 

6 ' God commands ! ' ' and the edict was met as with one 

accord ; 
"We must save the Holy City from the grip of the foes 

of the Lord!" 

Pilgrim and palmer heard it, and potentates and 

Kings 
Rose up and gathered about them their feudal follow- 

ings; 

Then they marched by the land in legions, and they 

sailed in hosts by the sea, 
Godfrey and Baldwin and Tancred, and Robert of 

Normandy. 

[71] 



i — ^ - 



While many drooped by the wayside, and knights and 

their squires were slain, 
The Cross still urged them onward as they saw the 

Crescent wane, 

Till at last pealed the triumph trumpet, the day of 

their victory came, 
When they hewed through lanes of slaughter to the 

church of the Holy Name. 

Red were the years thereafter, as red as the crimson 

fire 
Flushing the sunset surges that break on the reefs of 

Tyre. 

Ever and ever the onset, ever the sanguine shock 
Rocking the plains of Acre, shattering Antioch! 

Saladin bearing the Crescent, master of warlike art ; 
Holding the Cross before him, Richard the Lion 
Heart! 

Shaken the walls of Zion, the spot that was Judah's 

crown, 
While drowned in the blinding welter the staff of the 

Cross went down — 

Down, and the paynim banner hung until yester-hour 
Sinister in the sunlight over the Zion tower. 

[72] 



Vain were the sacrifices made in the days long gone, 
The rout on the heights of Hattin, the press at Asca- 
lon; 

But now where the solemn cypress guards sad Geth- 

semane, 
And over the Mount of Olives silvers the olive tree, 

Forever and forever, aye, until Time shall cease, 
Over the walls of Zion may there descend His peace ! 

Not vain be the sacrifices that man to-day has made ; 
May this, when the Right shall conquer, may this be 
the Last Crusade! 



[73] 



JEKICHO 

Down — down — fell the walls of Jericho, 
Walls they said that would not crumble , 
Walls they said no hand could humble; 

the mighty overthrow! 

Out of the Gilgal brake 

One, with a flaming sword, 

Unto Joshua spake, 

And this was the word : — 

"I am with thee in thy need, 

Give thee good heed — good heed!" 

Then He of the flaming sword 

Told Joshua what should be 

If over the heathen horde 

He would win the mastery. 

Tall was Jericho 's wall, 
Cubit on cubit high, 
A menace to appall 
Looming against the sky. 
But with never a sound 
Save for the rams' horns blown 
(Seven rams' horns blown), 
[74] 



Round and round and round 
The battlements of stone 
The hosts of Israel trod 
Under the eye of God. 

Peered the men on the wall, 

Jeered the men on the wall; 

With loud idolatrous curses 

They bade the hosts to quail, 

Consigning them to the mercies 

Of Moloch and of Baal; 

Yet they still marched round and round 

In time to the rams' horns' sound. 

Until, on the seventh day 

(Seven spans round and round), 

A shattering cry 

Went up to the sky 

From the lips of that vast array, 

Drowning the rams' horns' sound. 

And down — down — down — 

Down to the very ground 

Plunged Jericho 's mighty wall ; 

the thunderous fall, 

And death to the toppled town! 

Lend ear ! Give us to hear 
To-day some word of the Lord ! 
Is there no flaming sword, 
[75] 



No leader to point the way? 

See where, with embattled bands, 

Our enemy, Jericho, stands, 

Not cubits high but wide, 

In all its arrogant pride ! 

God, grant to us this boon: — 

Send Thou unto us soon, 

To ward from the threat and fear, 

Another Joshua! 

March, 1918. 



[76] 



A SYRIAN SCENE 

Upon Esdraelon's plain the anemones shimmer 
Like sunset waves beneath the wind's warm breath; 

Above, fair-girt by silvery olives, glimmer 

The bright white walls and roofs of Nazareth. 

Nothing to mar the quietude; unbroken 
The silence by a sign of strife or stress; 

Peace — brooding peace transcending all ; no token 
Of aught save beauty, aught save loveliness ! 

The loveliness of earth and sky o'erleaning — 
Of life that lapses with no dream of death ; 

Would the torn world might take to heart the mean- 
ing 
Of calm Esdraelon — and of Nazareth ! 



[77] 



RIDING WITH ALLENBY 

As I dream, it seems to me 
I have ridden with Alleiiby. 

On a day, in the time long gone, 
I rode into the heart of the dawn 
Out of Oaza. My desert steed, 
Son of a sire of the Nedjid breed, 
Took the breath of the morning sun 
With never a pause till we had won 
'er rocky steep and o 'er sandy swell 
To the riven House of Gabriel. 
Then, ere the shut of the eve, we came 
Where the last red streamers lit with flame 
The mosque of Hebron set in the vale, 
With its towering minarets, and its tale 
Of Isaac's and of Abraham's tomb, 
Where only the Faithful in the gloom, 
By the flickering cressets flecked, may fare 
When the swart muezzin calls to prayer. 
Thence on to Bethlehem we sped, 
With the dome of Allah overhead, 
And not a shred of a cloud in view 
To blur the breadth of its gold and blue. 

[78] 



So he marched, and it seems to me 
I have ridden with Alleriby! 

Then Jerusalem, and the Hill 

Of Golgotha, and the sacred, still 

Church of the Holy Sepulchre ! 

The Vale and the Mount, and the ceaseless stir 

Of pilgrim feet where the Christ once strayed, 

Under the cruel cross down weighed ! 

I rode by Jenin with its palms 

Clear cut against the noonday calms. 

I rode by Nablous, I rode by Nain, 

And over the wide Bsdraelon plain 

Up the slopes to Nazareth, 

Where out of the dim bazaars the breath 

Of the shaven sandalwood was blown. 

I skirted the snow-crowned mountain zone 

Of Hermon, and saw the morning star 

Silver the huts of Kerf Hawar ; 

And then I looked on the lovely loom 

Of orange, pomegranate and citron bloom 

(A bower that to the Prophet's eyes 

"Was a prescience of Paradise), 

And entered Damascus as the sun 

Peered over the brow of Lebanon. 



[79] 



So he marched, and it seems to me 
I have ridden with Alleriby! 

Never again the Turkish blight 

On all this land of lure and light ! 

Never again the Turkish ban 

From far Beersheba unto Dan — 

This home of holy memories ! 

Rather the beam of His promised peace, 

His peace for all men under the sun 

From Nebo north to Lebanon, 

His peace through the hand that set them free!- 

/ have ridden with Alleriby! 



[80] 



MISCELLANEOUS 



THE HOUSE OF THE HAWK 

(hapsburg) 

The House of the Hawk was hung 

High on a barren crag, 
And out from its eyrie flung 

The folds of a taloned flag. 
Bloody was its brood 

In that fateful feudal day, 
And rood upon fertile rood 

It gripped as its hapless prey. 

The mills of the gods grind slow, 
Thus saith the ancient song; 

But for the high and the low 
The mills of the gods grind long. 

The House of the Hawk reached out, 

Ever reached out afar ; 
It battened on ruin and rout, 

It fattened on fields of war; 
It fastened its clutching claws 

Upon Italy and Spain, 
And the heart of it knew no laws 

Save the ruthless laws of gain. 
[83] 



But the mills of the gods grind on, 

Until, or soon or late, 
In the dusk, or at some red dawn, 

There falls the sword of Fate. 

The House of the Hawk — behold 

How it lies for the world to see! 
The final hour has tolled 

Of the clock of destiny. 
Cruelty, arrogance, pride, 

Scepter and king and crown, 
Swept by a mighty tide 

The House of the Hawk goes down ! 

What of its vaunted power f 
What of its ancient line? — 

Lo, at the ultimate hour 

The mills of the gods grind fine! 



[84,] 



THE ARMENIANS 

I heard the Armenians speak, 
Tortured, enslaved and weak ; 
Heard down the wind their wailing and their sighing ; 
"From the most monstrous wrong 
Borne by us ages long 
Save us, a nation dying! 

"In fire, in blood, in shame, 

The inscrutable years proclaim 
Our wretched fate; hark to our voices crying 
For liberty at last! 
From horrors like the past 
Save us, a nation dying ! 

"You that are strong and free 
As the unfettered sea, 
List to our plea ! we yearn for your replying ; 
In this your triumph hour, 
With your embattled power 
Save us, a nation dying! 

"Smite off the intolerable 
Chains of the hordes of Hell 
Forevermore! Not vain be our relying 
On mercy, justice, right! 
From the dread thralls of Might 
Save us, a nation dying!" 
[85] 



HEINE 

In time that now is but a dream, 

Upon a far off morn, 
A swift immortal soul of song 

At Diisseldorf was born. 

Within him glowed the flaming light 

That bids mankind be free ; 
Within him burned the bitter scorn 

Of kingly tyranny. 

The ruthless power that bides in thrones 

Cast out this spirit brave, 
And he, an exile, dwelt and died 

Upon his "mattress grave/ ' 

Ah, Heine, from some unknown bourn 

It were not ours to blame 
Shouldst thou come back to execrate 

The Hohenzollern name! 

Lest a black legacy of hate 

Perpetuate should be, 
A fearless poignant pen like thine 

Must make thy people see! 
[86] 



GERMANIA 

Medusa of the nations, see her stand 
Implacable, detestate, treacherous, base, 
Without a scruple, and without a trace 

Of honor, a sword within her murderous hand ! 

Secret and subtle, now with smilings bland 
"Wreathing the sleek insidiousness of her face, 
Assassin and despoiler of the race 

That, saith the Word, the Eternal Master planned ! 

Shall she debauch the world with her foul creed 
Of Might transcendent, frightfulness supreme, 

Her god a god as brutal as was Baal? 
might we rouse from out this hideous dream 
To see some Power omnipotent, at our need, 

Smiting this monster till she cringe and quail ! 



[87] 



I PASSED FROM DREAM TO DREAM 

I passed from dream to dream until I came 

Unto the portal of a lofty hall ; 

Within arch rose on arch majestical 
Whereon was graven many a noble name 
Wide-blown upon the trumpet lips of fame ; 

And there were stately arms memorial 

'Mid flaunting banners hung upon the wall ; 
Methought it was a place where bode no shame. 

Upon a dais, clad in robes of state, 

Was one stern-browed, inscrutable as fate, 

Scanning a writing by a golden taper; 
I read : it seemed a compact of much weight. 
1 ' What meaneth this ? ' ' I asked of him who sate ; 

"Pooh!" he replied, " 'tis hut a scrap of paper!" 



[88] 



THE CONQUERORS 

I sing the world's great conquerors since the hour 

When there were vaunting kings in Nineveh, 
And the proud Pharaohs held imperious power 

Where Nilus rolls upon its ancient way; 

Since the dark night of Babylon's dismay; 
Since Xerxes down upon the Grecians bore. 

Slaves to their mad ambitions, where are they ? 
Lo, they have passed, and will return no more ! 

I sing the world's great conquerors — the flower 

Of Macedonian monarchs, and the sway 
Of Hannibal, who caused tall Rome to cower; 

Caesar, with legions ranged in long array ; 

The grisly Attila, who made his prey 
Renowned cities, many a fateful score. 

Slaves to their mad ambitions, where are thy ? 
Lo, they have passed, and will return no more ! 

I sing the world's great conquerors — the dower 

That Timur won through fray on bloody fray ; 
How Genghis Khan was in his time a tower 

Of dreaded might, nor spared his hand to slay ; 

The Man of Destiny, who pined away, 
An exile upon Saint Helena's shore. 

Slaves to their mad ambitions, where are they? 
Lo, they have passed, and will return no more ! 
[89] 



Envoy 

And you toward whom Fate hastens day by day, 
Kaiser and King, whom we despise, deplore, 

Slave to your mad ambition, e'en as they, 
You too shall pass, and will return no more ! 



[90] 



THE EARTH CALL 

Faint and far at first I heard it from the spaces of 

the dark, 
When the host of stars assembled in the midnight's 

mighty arc; 
Then it mounted with the morning, stirred my mind 

and bade me hark. 

And I knew it for the Earth-call from the vital source 

of things, 
A reveille to awaken to the hills and vales and springs, 
And it throbbed and grew in volume like the rushing 

of great wings. 

And its word was to the cornlands, and its word was 

to the wheat; 
There was warning in its message, there was tremor 

in its beat ; — 
"See, the children of men suffer, and there must be 

bread to eat! 

"For the air is filled with rumors, for the air is dark 

with dread, 
Where behind War's bloody footsteps lie the windrows 

of the dead ; 
And, lest rise a ghastlier terror, those still living must 

be fed. 

[91] 



"Here, on fields unscarred, untrampled, must the fer- 
tile seed be sown; 

Here, in generous abundance must the harvest yield 
be grown; 

Here must be a vaster reaping than the land has ever 
known. 

1 ' Hence the Earth-call of the Mother to the loam and 

to the clod, 
To the tillers and the toilers lest Death smite with 

deadlier rod; 
Hence the Earth-call of the Mother, which is but the 

voice of God ! ' ' 



[92] 



TWO CONSTANTINES 

When sore dissension rent the Eoman state, 
After the pagan Diocletian's reign, 
And legions met and grappled and were slain, 

And doubtful seemed the mighty empire 's fate, 

To one a cross appeared. He read, elate, 

"By this sign shalt thou conquer !" Not in vain 
He raised His glorious standard without stain ; 

To-day men name him Comtantine the Great! 

Lo, now another, — a foiled, futile thing, 
A puppet, but the shadow of a king, 

Conniving, paltering, plotting to his fall ; 
Blind to all honor and all sense of shame, 
How shall the Muse of History write his name ? 

He shall be ever Constantine the Small! 



[98] 



FLOWEKS IN BRUSSELS 
1885-1918 

TO ROBERT LIVINSTONE MASSONNEAU 

I wonder if remembrance be as kind 

To you as 'tis to me ? If you recall 

A noon in Brussels, blue skies over all, 
And down the stately streets a crooning wind ; 
And bow the crowded market-ways were lined 

With banks of flowers upheaped in booth and stall ; 

And how joy soared as though a festival, 
Some fair commemoration were designed? 

I can but wish, old friend, that you and I, 

A few days gone, again might have been there 

To see the city's glorious triumphing 
After the months of dolor and despair ! 
Would we not too have shouted "Victory," 

And flung our flowers and greetings to the king ! 



[94] 



FIVE AND TWENTY VALIANT MEN 

Five and twenty valiant men 

Marching to the wars, 
And though their feet were on the earth 

Their heads were in the stars. 

Five and twenty valiant men 

Who have done with wars, 
And though their bodies rest in earth 

Their souls are in the stars! 



[95 J 



Not with the high-voiced fife, 
Nor with the deep-voiced drum, 

To mark the end of strife 
The perfect Peace shall come. 

Nor pomp nor pageant grand 
Shall bring War's blest surcease, 

But, silent, from God's hand 
Shall come the perfect Peace! 



[96] 



